The Silent Adoration of Amelia Bones
by FlashFiction
Summary: At the funeral of Amelia Susan Bones, four men reflect on how they could not help but fall in love with her.
1. A Death in the Family

**Author's Note: **This came about after I realized how many characters in my head-canon are in love with Amelia Bones. There are going to be some more chapters, which look at the four men mentioned below at her funeral and their different relationships with her.

**A Death in the Family**

A plaque, gold and shiny, was fixed onto a wall of fallen heroes soon after it happened; "In Memory of Amelia Susan Bones, 1938-1996, Department of Magical Law Enforcement. A life lived in service and duty" were the words etched into its surface. It sat in the middle of the wall, filling the space so well that it seemed to many that it had always belonged there, as if some omnipresent force had predicted that one day Madam Bones would pay the ultimate price for her country.

Everyone had heard about it of course, her brutal murder marking the triumphant return of a regime that brought the countries to its knees less than two decades ago. The door to her office had been swamped with a wave of flowers and then avoided, as if some kind of curse had permeated through it and people were worried that they too would be forsaken. Some, however, did not seem to believe in the curse; they would go to the door, seeking it out, and then freeze before it, captured by the ghost of things past. It was a quality that the living Amelia Bones had been known for, though she blatantly denied it; something about her smile, her mind, her voice, her eyes, her soul pulled people into her orbit and they very rarely left.

One was Rufus Scrimgeour. He was walking somewhere else, his arms full with papers and memos. Whether he had intended to pass by the office of his late superior was unclear, but, like walking into a wall, he abruptly stopped moving as it came into view. Rufus had served Amelia Bones for a very long time and there was a running (and secret) joke amongst the Aurors about the extent of their leader's devotion to his own. As he stood staring at the flowers, for a brief moment, had one been looking at the precise time, something akin to heartbreak could be seen in his yellowy eyes. But then it was gone and so was he, the propriety and sense of duty that had defined his relationship with Amelia driving him forward.

Kingsley Shacklebolt came actively seeking to stop and reflect, though it had taken him a few days to prepare himself to do so. He was one of the Aurors who had responded to the situation, when the alarm was raised after Amelia had failed to come into work. The sight of her limp and bloody body, crumpled against the wall, was one he wasn't sure he would ever get out from behind his eyes. It was no secret that Kingsley had worshipped Amelia; she had been his mentor when he first arrived at the Ministry and there was talk of her personally selecting him to one day be her successor. He was certainly always ready to be her loudest advocate, the woman unable to do wrong in his eyes. Standing before the mass of flowers, Kingsley could be seen to shake, the large man suddenly seeming so small as he bowed his head in respect.

Yaxley was hesitant to visit the shrine that had sprung up, fearing any association with the brutal act that had killed his colleague. He hovered nearly a whole corridor away, his dark eyes scanning the scene, watching from a distance as the flowers were laid down. They had not been close, Amelia and he, not in any way that could've been quantitatively summed up with a label. But there was a connection, something that did not go unnoticed; a comment here and there, a look shared between them. There was a general consensus that Yaxley and Amelia existed on a higher plain, their intelligence and mystique setting them apart from ordinary men. Yaxley undoubtedly found her attractive, the slight infatuation he felt for her something he admitted freely when asked. Perhaps, even after she was gone, that connection remained, for something was definitely haunting Yaxley, his mind somewhere other than the corridor.

If anyone had called the journey that John Dawlish made to Amelia's office a pilgrimage, he would've told them (in less than polite terms) to take their opinions elsewhere, but that was what it was. Few people remembered, and those that did would not dare gossip, the brief affair that the pair had had when John was still a junior Auror and Amelia was only head of the office. They had been thrown together at various points, each one resulting in a build up of tension that was at some point inevitably going to explode. It had been short lived, a few months at the most, but a certain amount of passion could still be felt between them, although these days it mostly resulted in their arguing. Well, it had. As John shoved his hands into his pockets and stormed away, it was impossible to tell exactly who he was angry at.


	2. Devotion

**Devotion - Rufus Scrimgeour **

The funeral was on a Wednesday and, though that date was inconvenient, it had never presented itself as any kind of problem to Rufus Scrimgeour; if the event had been scheduled during his last moments to live, the soon to be Minster for Magic still would've been there. He stood at the side of the crowd, wanting to be as close as was possible, but respecting the right of family to take precedence. The wind ran across the grass and over his feet, creating ripples in the landscape as if the funeral party were some great ship anchored in the middle of a green sea. Rufus believed that, had she believed in such things, Amelia would be very happy here. There was an inescapable sense of calm, something that the world had not afforded the late Madam Bones on a regular basis. It made him sad to think of it; the last few years of her life had been constantly overarched by the shadow of some kind of chaos. If anyone deserved peace for all eternity, it was her.

It was hard for him to work out exactly how he felt; he had to be strong, he knew that, strong for her. The Ministry needed a moral voice more than ever now and, as Amelia could no longer be that, someone would have to take her place. Rufus didn't know if it could be him. No one could replace Amelia. She had been a singular personality, something that would never be seen again. But her voice had to remain, it was the one thing he was certain of. Amelia had relied on him a lot through out her career and Rufus was not about to let her down now. They had shared something special and he intended to honour that.

Rufus thought back to last summer, a time when things had been just as uncertain but somehow less sinister. He had been delivering some paperwork and had found her in a bit of state. She was putting on her plum coloured Wizengamot robes, swearing at the air.

"Rufus," Amelia cried, spinning around as he came in, "I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were here."

"I just have some case files that need signing off," Rufus said hesitantly, indicating the stack in his hands, "I can come back later, if now's not convenient."

"Not really," Amelia said distractedly.

The witch sat back down at her desk and began to rummage through a a draw.

"I have the Harry Potter hearing this morning," she said, her hands still flicking through things.

Rufus nodded; he had completely forgotten. Looking around her office, however, it didn't appear as if anything was happening. In fact, her office didn't look as if anything other than a large explosion of papers had happened. Amelia caught him looking around and raised an eyebrow.

"I thought," the wizard said, somewhat sheepishly, "that your office would've been in a better state if you were expecting visitors."

Amelia made a low noise that sounded almost like a growl.

"You must've been the only one who hasn't heard," she said aggressively, "The hearing has been moved, at the request of the Minister, to one of the old court rooms. It's a full jury. That's why I'm dressed up in this monkey suit."

Rufus was surprised. The case seemed fairly straight forward when Amelia had showed it to him the other day. When he thought about it, though, given the increasing paranoia of certain politicians regarding certain events, it wasn't that surprising.

Amelia was still fishing around in the draws.

"What have you lost?" Rufus asked, placing the papers down on the desk and going around to help her search.

"I am looking for," Amelia said, reaching to the back, "this."

She pulled out a monocle.

"I'm supposed to be trying it out," she explained, "to see if it improves my eyesight. The healer seemed to think this was the best option. I look ridiculous."

She put it on, to illustrate her point, and Rufus tried not to laugh.

"It's not that bad," he assured her.

Amelia tilted her head, disbelievingly.

"I look like the Monopoly Man," she said flatly.

"Who?" Rufus asked.

But Amelia had moved on.

"It's a bloody imposition," she complained, "The trial is going to drag on - Dolores will see to that - and I have two more meetings after this. I'm probably going to have to cancel, which will put me further behind in my work."

"I can go to those meetings if you like," Rufus offered, "I have a free hour or so and you won't have to worry."

Amelia leaned back in her chair, looking up at her colleague with a strange sort of smile.

"I'm not asking for that, darling," she said, reaching out her hand to touch his arm, "You know me; I like to complain when someone will listen."

Rufus did know her and she wasn't one to complain without cause. And he wanted to help her; with a slight sinking in his stomach, he realized that he always wanted to help her.

"It's not a problem," he said quietly, his voice not betraying any of the emotion he felt, "In fact, I'd say it's part of my job."

"And you're so good at it," Amelia said softly, once again smiling.

He watched her consider his offer, the corners of her eyes going slightly crinkly as the always did when she was in thought.

"Thank you," she said finally, her voice sincere.

Rufus bowed his head slightly.

"It's really not a problem."

At that moment, a secretary walked into the office.

"Madam Bones," the woman said, "you're wanted downstairs."

Amelia nodded, but, as the woman left, made a face at Rufus. He gave a wry grin. Amelia got up out of her chair and went to leave. She stopped in front of Rufus, her eyes glancing over his face. Then she reached up a hand and rested it on his cheek. Rufus felt an involuntary shiver go through his body.

"Dear Rufus," she said fondly, her voice soft, "What would I do without you?"

"I'm sure you would manage," Rufus said dutifully, "Actually, I'm sure you would succeed beautifully."

Amelia smiled, in the broad and open way that had come to be a source of light in Rufus' day. Then she walked off.

It was that smile that Rufus wanted to hold on to, that honest and genuine sign of happiness. He didn't want to think about the way she had died or how stressed she had been towards the end. He wanted to remember that warm and bright glow that had surrounded her, the aura that had drawn him in. Rufus stared out at the coffin, an unfamiliar burning sensation behind his eyes. Amelia Bones was his reason and now she was gone.


	3. Worship

**Worship - Kingsley Shacklebolt**

The funeral was on a Wednesday and Kingsley Shacklebolt came early. He always came early to things now, it was one of the things that Amelia Bones had instilled in him during his training and subsequent working with her. She was never late, even if time came right down to the wire and she was pulling on her shoes as she went out the door. When she arrived somewhere, she always looked dignified, calm and completely in control. It was one of the things that Kingsley had admired most about her. Even now, the coffin she lay in stood out as something carefully worked upon and composed, a dark wood, silver detailed throne against a primitive grass courtyard; did that make Kingsley one of her courtiers? He supposed, with a reminiscent smile, that that was one word for it.

He had loved Amelia Bones and she knew it; it had never been a secret between them. From the moment he had first seen her, he was drawn to her integrity, her humour, the sparkling quality that surrounded her. And she had been attracted to him, that was clear. However, working so closely together, it wouldn't have been appropriate to go any further. So Kingsley had settled with a work relationship, something that still allowed him to be with her. And it was actually fine by him; she was amazing at her job, one of the greats, and Kingsley felt constantly honoured to be learning directly from her. She had a high respect for him as well, something that he treasured.

The sun shone brightly on the coffin, its light glinting off the silver. It was funny, that even in death, Amelia still appeared to Kingsley in a halo of golden light. That was how he always thought of her, surrounded by a warm, hazy glow. The image of one evening sprang to his mind, a night in a foreign hotel. He had gone with her, as part of a delegation, to a conference on security. There was a large party, a ball of sorts, to mark the end of it. Kingsley had been sent to her room by another in their party, to invite Amelia for a pre-event drink. He straightened his bow tie and knocked on her door, three firm taps.

"It's open," her cool voice rang out from within and Kingsley turned the door handle and entered.

She sat at a dressing table, lounging elegantly on a white chair. Her dress was silver, long and straight, the neckline drawing straight across her chest. The top of her collarbone was exposed, a teasing element. Her honey coloured hair was wrapped in a simple swirl on the top of her head. A carefully manicured hand applied pale lipstick to a delicately powdered face. The dressing table, white and gold to match the interior decorating scheme, was covered with makeup and also small candles. The main light was low, but the gathering of tiny, blinking stars illuminated the part where Amelia sat, and Kingsley could not help but think that this was clever design, done to pull his focus to the most glorious thing in the room. His breath stopped in his chest. He had never seen her like this before, so carefully constructed, so radiant. She turned, smiled and everything dimmed by comparison.

"Can I help you, Kingsley?" she asked, "I like your tie."

The wizard looked down somewhat stupidly, as if he had forgotten what he was wearing. Amelia laughed, clearly and freely, the kind of laugh she didn't often use around the office. Kingsley grinned.

"You look beautiful," he said earnestly, hoping the basic words would convey the complex sentiment.

"Thank you," Amelia smiled, "It's a bit of a change from the office robes, I'll admit, but I can make an effort when I need to."

Kingsley wanted to tell her she looked effortless. The witch turned back to the dressing table and searched about, a perplexed look creeping over her face.

"Be a pal," she said, still looking around, "and see if my pearl earrings are on that side table over there, would you?"

The Auror obeyed and, finding the two small pearls, took them over to her. Amelia smiled thanks into the mirror as he appeared behind her, twisting a hand around to take them. Kingsley watched as she gently put them into her ears. He felt like he was intruding on a secret ritual, watching the magician's slight of hand from behind the scenes. And yet, he still could not tell how she did it. Amelia swiveled around to face him.

"Well you've help me and I still don't know why you're here," she said.

Kingsley had forgotten about any other motive.

"I've come to ask if you'd like to have a drink with the others before we go in," he said.

Amelia nodded, "okay. Just give me a second and I'll come down with you."

She picked up a small bottle of perfume and sprayed a little onto her wrist, dabbing that quickly on the side of her neck. The scent was subtle. It hinted at something familiar but left you guessing as to what it was. That suited her, Kingsley thought. The witch then set about blowing out all the candles. Once they were out, she picked up a silver clutch bag and led the way to the corridor.

The thing had been, Kingsley remembered now as he gazed at the sun on the coffin, that even as the candles had flickered out, the glow around Amelia had remained. She still seemed to radiated gold against her silver dress and the white wallpaper. The glow had remained around Amelia until the day that she died and now it seemed to go on beyond that. Darkness was moving across the world once more. And it would do it's best to suffocate all that glowed. But it gave Kingsley Shacklebolt an inordinate amount of hope to find that nothing could quell the light around Amelia Bones.


	4. Infatuation

**Infatuation - Yaxley**

The funeral was on a Wednesday and Yaxley was unsure if he had been going to attend. He didn't want to be reminded of what had happened. What he had done. But then he had realised that, as many people had noticed the banter that had existed between him and the late Madam Bones, it would've looked more suspicious if he hadn't been there. It was a nice day; the sun cast its rays over the landscape, a warmth pervading through the air. To Yaxley, it felt like Amelia was inside that warmth, hanging over him, telling him that she knew everything and would always know, as she always had.

He stood in the crowd, looking at all the people, wondering if any of them, any of the mourners, were aware that the killer was standing amongst them; for Yaxley had been there, there at her house when she had died. The Dark Lord had decided that she was a liability; after Albus Dumbledore, she was possibly the strongest candidate for Minister, and her views were so unwaveringly anti-Death Eater that she was not likely to be swayed. The Dark Lord wished to do the job himself, to tick another Bones name off his list, though others would accompany him. Yaxley had heard the order and kept his face straight, but inside he had felt something creak and almost break. Amelia Bones was one of the best people he had met. If he put aside their conflicting ideologies, he could actually find many similarities between them. And, from the very start of their shared time at the Ministry, he had always been able to find something to draw him towards her.

Trying to forget the heat on his back, Yaxley momentarily closed his eyes and thought of that fateful day. He had gone into her house, the defenses having been lowered for the occasion. The others were yet to arrive, he had made sure of that; he wanted to spend one more moment with her, before, well, before it happened. He walked through her hallway, careful to keep his feet silent. There were photographs on the wall, people who Yaxley did not know. Looking closer, he saw a tiny child, a young Amelia waving and smiling, her hair blonde and curly. Somehow it made her seem more human, less mysterious, and it made him even less sure about what they were about to do.

A light came from underneath a door; Amelia's bedroom. Yaxley stopped outside and took a breath. Did he really want to do this? He was about to turn away, when a voice, cool and calm, came shooting out towards him.

"Are you going to come in or are you just going to stand there?"

Yaxley felt his heart stop slightly and drop into his stomach; he could not turn back now. Pushing the door open, he found Amelia, sitting on the edge of her bed, her wand resting in her hands. She was wearing a simple black dress and an expression of disappointment, but no fear showed in her eyes. Yaxley's respect for her rose.

"You knew," he said, his voice sticking slightly in his throat.

Amelia nodded sadly.

"I just hoped I was wrong," she said, her voice hard.

Of course she had known. That was always the way with her. Yaxley wanted to speak, to say something, anything, to defend himself. To apologise. But no words came out.

"I think I'd always had my suspicions," Amelia continued, "You were so secretive, far more aware of things than you should've been."

"Why didn't you act on it then?" Yaxley asked, finding voice at last.

The woman before him briefly displayed on her face a smile, one that was sad and resigned.

"Like I said," her words coming out softer than before, "I hoped I was wrong."

Her disappointment was the worst, that look in her eyes as she watched him. Yaxley was the hunter, but right now he shook and his prey, this veritable queen of the jungle, did not move at all.

"If it were in my power," he said, "I would have saved you."

Amelia nodded, though he suspected she didn't quite believe him. That was a pity; if ever he was being sincere, it was now.

"But it is not," the witch said slowly, "We all make our choices, but, sometimes, when it comes down to it, there is no choice at all."

Yaxley thought he understood what she meant; he had chosen to follow the Dark Lord, a decision made of his own free will. But that choice had now led him to this moment, the moment when he could not choose whether or not this woman he adored would live.

"You did not make the choice to flee?" Yaxley commented, still in awe at the composure she displayed.

Amelia's shoulders slackened and for a moment she looked much older than she normally did, the lines on her face accentuated by the light as she looked to the corner of the room. There lay a half packed suitcase, some clothes strewn haphazardly across it.

"I was going to," she replied, her voice a little hoarse, "but then you came and, well, I never quite got around to making my escape."

"You seem surprised," Amelia added, when the wizard did not respond, "What did you expect? For me to stand tall and silent, facing the oncoming doom without fear, not wanting to run?"

He had actually.

"I am not a god," Amelia said simply.

And, though he knew it to be true, Yaxley did not quite believe her.

Everything had happened very quickly after that moment and Yaxley preferred not to think of it now. Her eyes still haunted the back of his mind. He wasn't sure if he had remember correctly or if he was inventing it, but the wizard could swear that she had not stopped looking at him, even after the others had arrived. The look had seemed to say "this is your fault, but I will rise above it". It scared him. Even now, listening to the low hum of voices, the only person who Yaxley felt could see right through him was her. From the coffin, from the grave, she still held power. I am not a god. Perhaps she was one now.


	5. Passion

**Passion - John Dawlish**

The funeral was on a Wednesday, for some odd reason that John Dawlish could not understand. It disrupted the lives of those who worked at the Ministry, although, he reflected with a smirk, that seemed somewhat fitting for a woman who had spent her life ensuring that nothing remained stagnant for long. What did not seem to fit was the location; a wide, open field, green and lush but nondescript, a few headstones dotted here and there. There were family graves nearby, someone had mentioned when the questioned had been raised, and nothing else had been said. John didn't know why, but he had always imagined that Amelia would be enshrined somewhere large and ominous, looking over and down upon the world she left behind. It had never occurred to him that she might be laid down somewhere quite so peaceful.

There was a huge number of people there, but that was not surprising; Amelia had a certain, unexplainable way of drawing people towards her. He looked around at the crowd of mourners and noted amongst them the men she had somehow coaxed into her following, a few of the many who were, through no conscious effort of her own, devoted; Rufus Scrimgeour, the solemn and sober veteran who had secretly and silently adored her. Yaxley, the one who matched her in inconstancy, but could always be counted on to be constant for her. Kingsley Shacklebolt, her young and brilliant protege, a student who viewed his teacher as nothing short of a god. John had no doubt that there would be many more, within the masses, who he could not put a name to. And it amused him, in a slightly bitter and sardonic way, to think that Amelia probably never knew; this queen, walking among commoners, who could never comprehend what it was she did to people. Although, in fairness, was there a person alive or otherwise who could confidently say that they could comprehend Amelia Bones? He was certainly not among them. With another pang of bitter amusement, John realized that he too was one of the blind following, his current state of heightened observation an obvious attempt to cover up the aching that had spread throughout his body over the last week. He had adored her, just as much as the others.

As his eyes stared at the coffin, the intensity of his gaze seemingly trying to raise her from the dead, John inadvertently thought of the last time they had spoken outside of work. He had been having a drink at The Leaky Cauldron. It was late evening, the day beginning to catch up with him as he watched the amber coloured liquid swirl around his glass. He was not in the mood to make small talk when Amelia walked in, looking frazzled and yet undeniably cool, but, as she sat with a sigh, just along the bar from him, he acted against his better judgement and spoke.

"You look annoyed," John commented, his voice low and bored.

Amelia started, clearly unaware of his presence. When she saw who it was, she scowled, a look that, to John's mind, was still incredibly attractive.

"We are just cogs within a paranoid and corrupt bureaucracy," the witch barked, running a hand through her short, greying-blonde hair, "Gin and tonic."

The barman brought her the drink in question and Amelia downed it in one. John raised an eyebrow; in his limited experience of the woman, she was not a heavy drinker. Leaning one arm on the bar, Amelia turned to face him.

"I mean," she said, "does anyone _actually_ think that Albus Dumbledore was attempting to overthrow the Ministry with a student army?"

John shrugged.

"There was sufficient evidence with which to accuse him of the crime."

"Sufficient evidence!" Amelia exclaimed incredulously, "Is there any part of that sentence that you truly believe, John?"

The wizard looked down at his drink. It did seem like a bit of a stretch. But Fudge was a man who liked to pull things to the limit, John had learnt that fairly quickly.

"I am now under the direct control of the Minister," he commented finally, "I believe whatever aligns with his policy."

He knew this wouldn't go down well with Amelia and he was right, her mouth opening in disgust.

"We all answer to the Minister," she said, signaling for another drink, "That doesn't mean we all have to be as stupid."

John nearly laughed, but he managed to stop himself.

"You've never liked him," he said.

"That as may be," Amelia said, dismissing his remark with a wave of her hand, "but I was willing to put up with him until he started making ridiculous decisions. If he's the man who said that Dolores Umbridge should be set on children, then I think it's time to consider a change in leadership."

This time John did not laugh. He put his glass down on the counter.

"I can't let you keep talking like that," he said quietly.

Amelia's eyebrows went up.

"Is that the Minister's official policy on free speech?" she laughed, a hard edge in her voice.

"Shut up," John said, his eyes moving up to meet hers directly.

He hated when she laughed at him, he'd always hated it. It made him feel so small, so stupid, like whatever he said didn't matter at all. Amelia was like that; people tended to see the bright, fair, caring woman, but she could be cruel when she wanted to be. At that moment, she seemed unable to speak. She put down her glass, the clunk against the surface a pointed one, highlighting the silence, and then she just gazed at him. It wasn't a glare, but it made John uncomfortable.

"What?" he snapped.

Amelia gave a sad smile.

"I was just looking in your eyes," she said, "and thinking what a pity it is that the man I used to know doesn't live there anymore."

That statement hurt John more than he cared to admit. Whatever he liked to pretend, it mattered to him what Amelia thought. The problem was that the man she knew had never lived in him, not really. Amelia was outspoken and passionate and a game changer. She cared about issues and had opinions and wasn't afraid to act on them, even if it set her in the minority. John was not like that; the only thing he felt passionately about was her. On an everyday level, John was built to follow.

"What do you want from me, Amelia?" he sighed.

"I've been asking myself the same question for years," she said.

"Me too," John laughed bitterly, "me too."

"Really?" Amelia said, sounding genuinely surprised "I thought you would've worked it out, you were always so good at noticing things."

"Was I?" he asked, "I never noticed."

They laughed, cautiously at first, and then loudly and clearly. It was kind of laughter that had been the soundtrack to the best moments of their relationship. It was that memory that left John with a heavy feeling in his stomach. Amelia too seemed to be thinking about it.

"We weren't sure who we were when we were together, were we?" the witch said, "It took us this long to work it out and now it's too late to make those two people compatible."

"I'm not sure I understand what you just said," John replied.

Amelia smiled another sad smile, although there was something else around the edges of it; fondness, a genuine feeling for the person it was directed at. Maybe John saw it because he really was good at noticing. Maybe he saw it because it was what he wanted to see. The witch got off her seat, reached into her pocket, took out a few coins and threw them onto the bar. Then she moved closer to John and placed a hand on his shoulder. It was gentle and warm, and the wizard secretly wished that she would never move it.

"I'll be seeing you, John," Amelia whispered.

Then she turned and walked out of the bar.

That was how she ended all of their conversations. I'll be seeing you, John. But it was so much more than simply a goodbye; it was a promise, that they would meet each other again, but not as the Head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement or the personal Auror to the Minister. They would meet as Amelia Bones and John Dawlish, two people with history that they weren't quite ready to put into the past. But they never met again.

John had tried to direct his anger at something other than Amelia, but he had not been able to; looking now at the coffin, his rage was worse than ever. Why did she have to leave like that? It wasn't her fault, of course it wasn't her fault, he had been telling himself that for days, but he couldn't move away from the idea that his was just so typical of her. Typical in that it just ripped open another hole that was unable to be filled. That was what made John the most angry; all his memories of Amelia were framed with this blurry line, this inexactness, this refusal to be pinpointed and explained. Although he had loved her with all the energy that existed in him, John had never really known Amelia Bones. And now, he reflected with resentment, he never would.


End file.
